


The Contemplations of a Fetus Dark lord

by StolenMidnightKisses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: As in it isn't graphic, Fetus Voldemort, Gen, Harry Potter raises Voldemort, Harry's actually a good parent, Implied Mpreg, Magical Pregnancy, Magically Powerful Harry Potter, Mpreg Harry, Parent Harry Potter, Powerful Harry Potter, Pregnancy, Single Parent Harry Potter, Voldemort can love, Voldemort feels emotions, confused Voldemort, not like in Cursed child, which doesn't exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 23:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19050562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StolenMidnightKisses/pseuds/StolenMidnightKisses
Summary: Voldemort remembered his killing curse backfiring and shooting the Potter boy one last utterly betrayed look before he... awoke. In a small dark space.And if Voldemort was right and this was indeed pregnancy... he didn't know how he'd suffer another 9 months of this.(AKA, Voldemort finds out what exactly it's like to have a person love him, and finds himself perhaps returning the sentiment.)





	The Contemplations of a Fetus Dark lord

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you appreciate that I'll now have only 4 hours of sleep :) Enjoy!

Voldemort... Was confused.  
  
Well actually, that was a bit of an understatement, but Voldemort didn’t want to be written down in history as some megalomaniac that always preached in hyperbolic (although he had to admit, he had exaggerated a bit in his speeches at times, but hey, good for morale and all, right?).   
  
Voldemort remembered shooting an Avada Kedavra at that insufferable Potter brat and then watching as his own killing curse came back to him. At that point he realised that the Elder Wands allegiance had somehow fallen into Potters hands, explaining that green light rushing towards him. Just before he was hit, he made sure to give Potter the most betrayed look possible, and then… woke up?  
  
In a tight, wet, red and yellow space.  
  
Now, Voldemort was not a man of many fears, but after being locked one too many times in the tiny orphanage basement as a child, he would be the first to admit that maybe he was a tiny bit claustrophobic. And this small space was not really helping things at all.  
  
***  
  
After a couple of days? Weeks? Months? Years? Of floating around, Voldemort realised that he was a baby in the process of pregnancy. Really, he felt stupid for not realising it before, but no one could fault him- I mean how many people exactly had went through this and documented it? If Voldemort had to wager, he'd say not many that's for sure. If someone had told his younger self that he'd find himself reborn and conscious as a fetus. He would have laughed in their face. Or crucioed them. Or both. Lest it be said that Voldemort couldn't compromise.  
  
***  
  
As Voldemort drifted into and out of consciousness, he also realised he could hear a voice. Well, more of a mumble really, but it was still there. And as Voldemort found himself bobbing up and down in his increasingly smaller space- seriously, someone had to check these wombs and make them bigger and roomier, Voldemort refused to be subjected to another couple of months of this- he found himself- dare he say it- soothed by the voice.  
  
Well, Voldemort reasoned, he was currently going through a traumatic period in his life, so he supposed a little comfort wouldn't go amiss.   
  
Voldemort refused to think that perhaps this comfort he found from his new mother was because of parent issues he may or may not still harbour after 70 years. Refused. Now if only that quiet, irritating voice he'd be pressed to call reason stopped nagging him in his brain, he'd appreciate it, thanks.   
  
***  
Another indefinable length of time later (it's not like Voldemort had a watch or anything, cut him some slack), he found that he could see better, and could see the blurry shapes of his disturbingly half-developed hands and feet. Voldemort also started to jerk randomly as his muscles spasmed and found that babies were, in fact, capable of hiccups.   
  
The most irritating thing about it all was the moment Voldemort did something that could be felt by his mother, she would begin to coo and rub her stomach. Which only accomplished in squashing him and making his space smaller.  
  
Voldemort firmly told himself that he wasn't trying to intentionally kick out, and nor did he feel fluttery whenever he heard his mother's voice. He was a dark lord for Merlin's sake!  
  
***  
Voldemort felt quite stupid when he realised that the voice in fact belonged to a man. No one could blame him, he had grown up in a British Orphanage in the 1920s after all, and a religious one at that, who had hammered into him at an early age that same sex relationships were unnatural and vile. And in the muggle world after all, only females could bear children. Voldemort _had_ read about spells enabling a man to grow a temporary uterus that could be impregnated, allowing the man to carry a child full term. And while Voldemort had been surprised when first reading about it, he had had no practical use for it, so it had never crossed his mind again- especially since the ‘carrier’ had to be someone of exceptional magical strength and there weren’t many of those around. Of course, he was one, but the mere thought of carrying a child and giving birth was enough to give him nightmares. And after all the things he had done and seen, _that_ was saying something.

 

But after the initial shock had passed, Voldemort found himself quite okay with the thought. In fact, more than okay, seeing that if his father was powerful enough to carry a child, then the child itself would also have considerably powerful magical core too. Voldemort was quite relieved at that; the thought of being weak made him shudder. And at that thought, Voldemort felt… what’s the word? Gratefulness? At his father? It was such a foreign concept that Voldemort immediately (Metaphorically), picked the emoticon up between a pair of muggle science tongs and deposited it within a locked box and buried it far, far away. But with every thoughtless stroke his father made to his stomach, with every gentle murmuring that was directed at him, with every coo in his direction, Voldemort found it harder and harder to lock away the box, that now contained another, new emotion. Fondness.

 

Voldemort found such emotions weak and unnecessary, but in the privacy of his womb… in the safeness of his womb, Voldemort found himself wishing that the pregnancy never ended, for he had never felt so cared for in his life.

 

***

His father had started to talk more and more with him lately and Voldemort had been able to start discerning some words here and there. At first it was something of an incoherent jumble that Voldemort couldn’t make rhyme nor reason of, but now he could detect the lilt of his fathers voice whenever he was finishing a sentence, and the soft cadence of his tone when he was talking to Voldemort directly, and Voldemort started to make sense of the things he was being told.

 

It was all the horrible, disgustingly sweet things that Voldemort had expected them to be. How he was ‘sweet’ and ‘precious’ and a ‘gift’ (Merlin, honestly), how excited his father was to meet him and… plans; for the future. His father told him about the room he was preparing for him and how his friends had told him he was worse than a nesting dragon, how he was hand painting the room- and then laughed and said that for some reason his hands always went to green and silver- and how he was hand-carving his cot out of yew and was embellishing it with little snakes (at that point, his father started calling him his little Slytherin and Voldemort had frowned at the fondness that rushed through him).

 

His father also talked about the places he’d take Voldemort too- awfully mundane places like the zoo and yet Voldemort had never had a childhood where someone had cared enough for him to do that, and he found himself… looking forward to it.

And with each compliment and endearment, Voldemort found his cold, frozen heart starting to beat again, and he couldn’t find it within himself to care enough to stop it.

 

***

One day, much later in the pregnancy, Voldemort found himself woken up to his fathers’ body shaking, but not in laughter, this was different, more like-

 

His father was crying. And Voldemort frowned and stroked his hand on the bottom of his womb in the way he knew his father liked, and yet despite his fathers’ hand landing on his belly which started stroking him in soft, soothing strokes, his father still didn’t stop crying. Voldemort felt- no, not concerned, Dark Lords didn’t get _concerned_ \- he felt… something (protectiveness?) that made Voldemort desperate to kill everyone that made his father cry this way. Yes. Homicidal urges. Voldemort could deal with those.

 

And then his father started talking, in soft, stuttering tones to him and explained how he was sorry and how his lover, Voldemort’s other father, didn’t want him (Voldemort scoffed, surprise surprise, story of his life), but how _he_ would always be there for him, and never leave him, and take care of him. And his father continued explaining how much he loved him and how they’d make their own little family of two. And then his father said:

 

“I’m going to name you Tom. After a little boy who never got to feel love. And I’m going to love you enough to correct that.”

 

At that Voldemort stayed- or rather _floated_ \- in shock. Surely his father couldn’t mean- but no he couldn’t- that was impossible- but no, no one remembered that before Voldemort there was a little scared boy called Tom who did indeed never feel love. His father couldn’t be naming him… after that? The only people who knew about his unsavoury past were long since dead and even if his father somehow knew the Dark Lord’s history, why would anyone, ever name their child after… well… him? After all, Voldemort was sure that in this post-war world he was portrayed as some evil villain, and no one in their right mind would ever name their child after Voldemort.

 

And yet, despite knowing how unlikely it all was, the mere though that his father was willing to name him after himself, after that little, alone boy who wished for a family that never came was… sweet. And the fact that he named him so that there was a Tom in the world that felt what it was like to be loved?

 

Despite everything, despite who he was, and how many he’d murdered, and how certain he was that a child conceived under amoretia could never feel love towards another person… Voldemort was pretty sure that at that moment, he felt something close to that.

 

***

Something was happening. His father was panicking, shouting and running. Voldemort could feel the magical energy of things steaming past him that he could only assume were curses. And suddenly Voldemort was afraid. Not for his own life but the one that he could have had this time, the one that would never be if he and his father were killed. The one his father had whispered to him between the soft moments Voldemort was awake, when Voldemort felt loved and-

 

In this moment, where he was hovering between life and death, Voldemort realised that he loved this man that was his father, who loved his so unconditionally despite everything and never expected anything in return. And Voldemort did not want him to die.

 

Later, when he and his father were safe, Voldemort learnt from the conversations around him that some remaining Death Eaters had tried to kill his father- which meant that his father had to be some influential Light figure, but Voldemort could not find it within himself to care. And when his father gently rubbed his stomach and said: “I’m glad that you’re okay”, and Voldemort found that he echoed the sentiment.

 

***

Voldemort woke up feeling… strange. There were voices around his father, someone telling him to push and there was his father crying in pain above him and the muscles were contracting around him as Voldemort felt the odd experience of being pushed downwards.

 

He had a moment of sadness for the loss of the womb that had been his haven for 9 months, where he had learnt fondness for another, what it was like to be worried, angry and concerned on behalf of another and feel _love_ for another- Merlin he was turning incredibly sappy, thank Merlin he had a decade or two to figure out these emotions before he started another campaign- and what a complete 180 he had taken from when he had wanted to leave the womb as soon as possible.

 

His stream of thought was interrupted as the muscles contracted around him again and his mother screamed- didn’t they have potions to give him for the pain or something? And as he moved forward again and his new body felt air on the crown of its head for the first time and the hands of another began reaching in to help him, he felt a moment of panic. What if he recognised his father? What if was someone he had fought against and hated? Could he still have the happy childhood he longed for and-

 

Merlin those were hands grabbing him and his father was screaming again and all those voices and the lights Merlin it was bright, so bright and he was crying as he was brought up and-

 

“Congratulations Mr Potter! It’s a boy.”

 

Wait what.

 

And there was his father’s face smiling tiredly at him, still beaming brightly nonetheless and oh no oh no Merlin no despite his blurry eyes, Potters green could never be mistaken no no no no –

 

“Heya Tom,” Potter said, holding him closely to his chest. And suddenly his brain quietened and all of Voldemort’s thoughts slowed to a halt as he remembered all of the plans Potter had made for them and how much Potter loved him and that he’d named him Tom- Tom of all people- despite knowing Voldemort’s past better than anyone else did, and Potter knew exactly what he was doing naming him. And suddenly, despite knowing who those cool lips kissing his head belonged to, Voldemort knew he still loved his father, despite who it was (and maybe inside his head Voldemort was grateful to the Potter brat for killing him so he could experience this; not that he’d never in a million years admit it). And despite Voldemort not knowing what brave new world he was born in and what was going to happen when he and Potter sat down to have a much needed chat as soon as he could get his tongue to cooperate, Voldemort knew that for the first time in his life he was safe in the arms of someone who loved him unconditionally, despite who those arms belonged to.

 

And as he drifted off to sleep, with Potter softly singing to him- Voldemort found that he didn’t care.

 

(He was being an absolutely terrible model Dark Lord, but that could wait.)

 


End file.
